Torn Asunder
by Anomity
Summary: AU. What if the war raged for 10 years? A story on the power struggle between the empire and the alliance in their quest for the domination of Alagaesia. Pairings are as of yet undecided. Rating may increase in the future. I don't own Inheritance Cycle.
1. Prologue

A/N: Hi everyone. This is Anomity here with my first story, Torn Asunder! *insert applause here*. This story explores what it'd be like having the war last 10 years, and how the characters would change. Be prepared for a major change in several characters' personality, and a look at the darker side of the story. This chapter is just a simple prologue explaining the grey folk themselves. I urge you to drop a review. So, without further ado;

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**Prologue**

The scattered pieces of information of the grey folk were just insignificant rumours about what they truly once were. They were once the true masters of magic, whom at the simplest command could rain down lightning upon their foes, who could create even the most intricate jewellery, the most finely crafted weapons from mere specks of dust. They were once the kings, the rulers of the world.

Alas, for all their power, at some unidentified point in history, they disappeared. No one knew of what they had become, except for the wisest of dragons, the high elves and the Kull lords; whom protected this piece of information with their lives, taking it to their graves, and completely obliterating all records of magic that the grey folk had possessed; bar one. This was the book of knowledge, a recount that was imprinted into the walls of Doru Araeba, found by none for millennia, through the spirit of a single mourning dragon, the only dragon who survived the backlash suffered from the loss of his rider, the king of the grey folk. In his dying moments, he implanted the single important message that would cause one war to escalate to heights unseen before that time. Magic was _sentient._

The grey folk had seen the powers of magic, how it was fickle, and attached itself to beings that it fancied. The grey folk managed to deceive magic, and bind it, with what they called the ancient language. Scholars predicted that this was the reason that they vanished from the face of the earth, that perhaps, in sealing of the powerful force that was magic, they gave up their lives, blood and souls, combining elements of sacrificial, blood, and soul magic.

For at the point of time where the grey folk existed, the beings of Alagaesia were omnipotent. None dared to rage war against one another due to the sheer destruction that they would bring to the island that they existed on. They lived in relative harmony with one another, until they began to breed. They found, that with every generation gone by, the ambient magic within their descendants decreased, and eventually, beings were created who were devoid of magic completely. They were cast out of society, shunned for what they were, for they were _abominations._

As time passed, even the mightiest of beings began to age, and slowly they passed on. The knowledge, that to them, was insignificant, such as creating water from nothing, or growing their plants, became the most important things in the lives of the new inhabitants of alagaesia. It is said, that dwarves and humans descended from the grey folk. The different forms of magic, such as necromancy, elemental magic, sacrificial magic, soul magic, from the darkest of magics that completely corrupted ones soul, to the purest of magics, which made the users seem like gods, were lost. They dwindled into a generalized form of magic, tied by the ancient language.

However, the bonds that held magic in its place by the ancient language were slowly weakening. During the era of the wars between men, the bonds had broken down to a point whereby they almost had disappeared. The wild magic that was present due to magic escaping created many powerful individuals, but at the same time limited their powers by the miniscule knowledge that they possessed. But when they would discover their true heritage, when they would discover their mastery, they would be _legends_.


	2. Memories

A/N: A Thank You goes to **MarkedBenjamin** for his review! And don't worry about the power levels so much right now. The characters won't be as powerful as the ancients. The timeline is also something that I have to do out soon, and will probably come in the next few chapters as I'm still ironing out everything in my head.

This chapter is mostly about why Eragon turned darker than he was depicted in the inheritance cycle. The end is a bit abrupt though. Review! And views on writing technique, pairings and different types of magic is appreciated.(:

Also, don't expect an update too soon. I've got exams coming up in about a week's time, so probably after that.

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"_Only the strongest had survived."_

Such were the thoughts of Eragon Shadeslayer, Blue Rider of the Alliance, commander of the first guard, and holder of many other titles, as he gazed over the bloody field. The smell of burning carcass could be smelt, from the funerals given to the warriors deceased in battle. The shouts of men trying to prevent the shrieking crows whom were eager for the feast that had once awaited them grated harshly on his enhanced hearing. Eragon sighed, and snapped his fingers. Instantaneously, eerie blue flames started to burn the flesh of the dead. Men instantly leaped away from the bodies of loved ones, and some screamed as they were burnt by the rider's magic. Several looked towards the source of the fire in anger, but they were instantly quelled, as his unseeing eyes focussed on them. At six foot tall, carrying what could be identified as a double-ended glaive, caked in the blood of the enemy, and with the sun rising behind him; Eragon struck an imposing figure to the Alliance, at the same time bringing fear into their enemies' hearts.

With a grim smile, he started walking towards what his senses told him was Nasuada's tent. The first guard was camped out at the end of Orthiad, the entrance into the Beor Mountains and the territory of the dwarves. He was part of the guard that was left behind to protect the entrance into the Beors, as Sudra had fallen to the Silver rider, A'turom, approximately four and half years ago. This was quite a loss for the Alliance, as the humans had lost one of the only cities that they had possession of. Eragon could clearly remember the grisly welcome that had awaited him as he returned from his reconnaissance mission.

_Eragon closed his eyes for a moment, and spread out his mind to envelope the vast sky around him, just as he had been trained to do many a year ago. He sighed in the peace that enfolded him, that brought him away from the problems that he faced, the tortured faces of men begging for their lives, the look of anguish as he killed a loved one, and the snuffing out of life he felt whenever he killed another. But something tickled the edge of his consciousness. Frowning, he focussed on it, and the light buzz became a cacophony of misery, slamming into his consciousness like a mountain. _

_Wordlessly, Saphira accelerated, also sensing her rider's unease that there was something wrong. Within minutes, they had reached the city of Aberon. The conflict had been brought to Sudra, and within weeks, half of it had been taken. However, there was a sudden blackout in communications. Suspicious of this, Eragon requested to be sent on a reconnaissance mission to Lithglow, to see what had caused this silence. Eragon snapped out of his thoughts as a pile of smoke rose from the city. Saphira hastened even further, and Eragon was forced to flatten himself against Saphira's back as she rushed towards the smoke. Looking down, he could make out half the city in flames. And hovering directly over the centre of the smoke was a huge shadow. _

"_Dragon!" screamed Saphira as she looped to avoid a crackling mass of silver energy that had been shot at her. With dread in his stomach, Eragon recognized it as the necromantic magic that A'turom wielded. Eragon was rather shocked that the silver rider was present. Prone to fits of insanity, A'turom was not the most trusted of Galbatorix's riders. However, this did not make him any less deadly. He was a dark elf, an elf that had gone corrupt under the dark magicks that Galbatorix had offered them. The emergence of dark elves was not a new revelation by any means. _

_Indeed, it had been several years since the dark elves had forsaken their kin in Du Wendelvarden, and sought the teachings of the dark king. Under his tutelage, they grew to be the blackest and most powerful magicians of the Black Hand, and they were used almost exclusively in assassination missions. All except for A'turom, Eragon amended, as he dispelled another bolt of magic that would follow Saphira, and upon contact, paralyse her, making her unable to fly for a few hours, which would immediately give A'turom the upper hand. _

_Suddenly, several objects levitated in the air in front of Eragon. He readied a bolt of lightning, prepared to strike down the unidentifiable objects if they posed enough of a risk. The first object was a lifeless woman. Her body showed signs of having several bones being broken, and her eyes were staring listlessly at the air around him. Eragon felt sickened. As the second figure floated up into the air, Eragon choked on the very air he was breathing. A mop of curly red hair, followed by short arms, a chunky midsection, and stubby legs revealed themselves in succession. He saw red. It was his nephew, Kalton. His blood pounded in his ears, and his wayward emotions built up the disk of lightning in his hands until he could feel the static pulsing in the air. _

_He banished it at the shrouded form of A'turom, but all he received in response was mocking laughter. Eragon almost jumped as two bodies materialised in front of him. They were the bodies of Roran and Katrina. Arms encircling one another, locked together in an eternal embrace. Eragon let out a scream of pure hatred for the silver rider. All he received in turn, were the mouths of his cousin and his sister-in-law opening, and saying the words, "Eragon, it's your fault. Why didn't you save us?" Eragon screeched in anguish, but all he received was clapping in return. At that time, he didn't think he hated anyone more than A'turom, who had stolen his family away from him. _

Eragon snapped out of his memory with sadness welling up inside him. He had tried so hard to get revenge for his family. But his efforts were futile. With his emotions out of control, he could not do anything, except feel the pain as the dead bodies of the ones he loved were paraded in front of him. Eragon mused that he was lucky that he escaped that day with only a scar across his right cheek, one that would constantly remind him of his failure to protect his family. He rapped on the tent and offered some of his blood onto the pedestal in front of the tent. The tent opened slowly, and he saw Nasuada and the Kull leader talking. The Urgal bared his teeth in what would be considered a feral grin to humans, but one which Eragon had no difficulty returning. Nasuada beckoned for him to enter, "Come Eragon, we have much to discuss."


	3. Confrontations

A/N: Hi guys, I typed out this chapter on 27/4 (Tuesday), but will post it during the weekend, so forgive me if I don't include you here. Thank you to **MarkedBenjamin**, and **JerickaRose** for your reviews! I just wanted to ask what was wrong with the first and second chapters, as I've got 107 hits, but only 3 reviews. Im not dissatisfied with the review count.. yet. I just wanted to ask you guys if you think there was anything wrong with the story up till now. If not, just drop me a review saying "This story was good" or "Good story, keep it up". This way, I'll know that there's nothing amiss. Oh, did I forget to mention? Eragon is the leader of the riders of the Alliance.(:

Review!

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"Come Eragon, we have much to discuss," said Nasuada, beckoning the Blue Rider into the command tent. Eragon glanced around. Nasuada always had had an interesting philosophy of what objects she should keep in her room, as well as how. Immediately upon entering, one would immediately notice the half length mirror on the right of the tent entrance. Nasuada had explained to Eragon that it gave a person whom walked in the impression that Nasuada cared about her appearance to others, but at the same time also indicated that she was not vain. She had explained to him how even the smallest of things created a first impression for anyone, and as the leader of the Varden, the human faction of the Alliance, Nasuada had to constantly keep up appearances.

Nar'Garzhvog quietly commended Eragon on his success at the skirmish that had taken place just before the gates of Orthiad, as he had driven away the enemy with the dwarves' superior weapons, the advantage of a dragon, as well as Eragon's undisputed skill with a double glaive. Nar'Garzhvog was indeed a fearsome warrior. When he had joined forces with the Alliance, attaining his own division made up of _Ulgralgra, _he was 7 feet tall. He would usually be seen in battles tearing into the enemy with relish, as though he had a grudge against every single one of them. He was calm, strong, and was able to discipline his urgals well. All in all, he was the perfect ally to have, and one of the worst mortal enemies one could hope to cross.

The three leaders of the factions of humans, urgals and dragon riders of the Alliance discussed between them at length the issues of inter-faction tensions, which had been almost non-existent for the past few years, strategies on how they could recapture Surda, and supplies for each of their individual people. "As you can see, the dragons of my riders have needed to feed on the cattle of the Varden. I apologize for inconvenience caused by this, and will pay back-" He was cut off by the entire room glowing iridescent red for one moment. All of them were momentarily stunned by the flash of light, and a loud horn call. An urgal horn call. They all understood what it meant. It was the call of war.

After nodding to Nasuada and Garzhvog, communicating a silent need for reinforcements. Upon receiving their nods, Eragon bounded out of the tent, and launched himself into the sky, whereby he was caught by Saphira. "_I sense unease in you Eragon,"_ she murmured telepathically, as all dragons do. _"Orthiad is well guarded. There's no way that an army could have gotten in. You saw the color of the sign," _he replied. Iridescent red meant almost the highest level of alert, and only the color of blood red was higher, which was only activated if there were enemy riders present. He began charging his glaive with his elements of ice and fire. Ice was his major element, along with Lightning, and fire was his minor element. Despite the fact that he had 3 elements at his disposal, he was weak compared to those blessed with the gifts of magic, such as illusionism, necromancy, elementalism, holy magic, dark magicks, geomancy and various other gifts. He had no master to train him, and most of his skills were gained by experimentation.

Most of the soldiers of the Empire as well as the Alliance did not have any knowledge of Eragon's elemental capabilities. Even the other races did not know the full extent of his abilities. The elves, as well as the magicians from the other races had an inkling of his power, as he was able to cast most of his spells without the use of the ancient language, but the price to pay for the knowledge that he had gained was that he had to keep quiet about his abilities. He had sworn an oath in the Ancient Language, which was actually an advanced form of binding oath magic. One **could** tell lies in the ancient language, but that broke the oath that the ancient language contained, due to the immense energy that was put into the bindings of the ancient language.

Eragon jumped off Saphira and landed in front of the Alliance forces that had managed to make it to the gates of Orthiad in time for the attack. He gave a feral grin to his soldiers, one that scared them due to the sheer ferocity of it, but at the same time heartened them, to see such a powerful force on their side and not their enemies'. He raised his glaive whose tips glistened in the sunlight. He spun it around, and raised it at the enemy, whose door breaking attempts could be heard. Saphira roared. A roar, that signified pain for their enemies, victory for their allies, and a promise of vengeance upon those who tried to harm them. For a moment, all was silent. Instantaneously, the assembled troops of the Alliance cheered, at the same time groans of dread from the Empire assembled outside the gates.

Eragon pointed to the doors with the end of his glaive that was had a blue aura around it. He began walking deliberately in step to the ensemble army outside the gate. The Alliance troops also followed, and the steps together made a thunderous crashing sound, one that would frighten the enemy outside, making them think that they were facing a force nearly 3 or 4 times his size. As the gates finally burst open, Eragon's group had come within a stone's throw of the gates. Immediately, Eragon signalled for bows to be strung, and for spears to be raised. In another instant, he had thrown his hand down, and multiple ranks of the empire army bled and died. Eragon shifted command of the archers to one of the more proficient archers that he had met during his stay in Orthiad. He shifted to a position that was usually seen in a predatory animal waiting to strike. Along with the first rank of the Alliance, which was made up entirely of Garzhvog's finest kull, he charged towards the enemy.

The two armies collided with a resounding clash. The empire was bottlenecked, reduced to forcing their troops in through the narrow gates of Orthiad. The Alliance took full advantage of this by slaughtering whichever rank appeared through the gates. Suddenly, a blood red flash appeared from somewhere behind the Alliance army. Eragon swore, and signalled to a kull warrior beside him, and with the aid of the kull's strength, coupled with Eragon's own supernatural muscle, tossed himself up in the air, making himself an easy target for the Empire archers, only to be swept away in Saphira's claws after he had been caught.

Looking forward, he saw a black dragon heading towards him. He realized that it was Vanir. The same Vanir that he had spent countless hours sparring with, the same Vanir whom was his archery rival, the same Vanir whom he had beaten in the Blood Oath Ceremony swordsmanship challenge. Vanir had turned dark several years ago, and was at that time one of the first dark elves, who even volunteered to turn himself into a shade for the 'benefit of the Empire' as he put it. A result was a shade-elf, truly one of corrupt intention, and a frighteningly strong dragon rider. His dragon was also black in color, just like the one of the King's.

What made Vanir one of the most deadly warriors of the king was his usefulness as a transition mage. He had the ability to disappear and reappear anywhere he wanted, but the power of the object was one of the factors that made his ability so feared. The price that he had to pay was one of power, but more of pain, proportional to the feeling of every iota of one's body being erased and reattached at another point. The years had transformed his face, which was once youthful and handsome to one which was settled into a permanent grimace from using his abilities. As Eragon and Vanir sat astride their dragons waiting to do battle, other things were conspiring further into the dwarven kingdom.

A dagger flew towards King Orik, as he was on his knees helpless before the powerful rider before him. Just before it could impale his head, it was hit by a knife, and flew out of its deisgnated path. "So, the little wolf has come out to play," said a smirking Murtagh as he stepped out of the shadows, holding several knives in his hands. Immediately, the rider felt pain on his mental shields. The wolf, it wanted out. He grinned back, withdrawing a curved short sword. "Your blood would go well with your dragon." he murmured, licking his lips. And in front of King Orik, the furious fight for his life began.

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Many new riders! I'll cap it soon. At around 3-4 on each side. I'll be including Vampires and other mythical creatures as well (but there wont be a lot of them). Recommendations of characters and their form of magic, physical appearance, magical strength etc a.k.a OC submissions are appreciated. Remember to... REVIEW!(:


	4. Fight I

Thank you to those whom reviewed. I'm a bit pressed for time right now, so will speak about issues, (like plot, timeline, thanks for reviewers etc.) more in the next chapter, which should be up during the weekend. There will be some elements of Trudi Caravan's Age of Five in here, but I don't own, so don't sue. Remember to **Review**.

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The lycan grinned, looking like the predator that his race was known to be. "Defending a _dwarf_ Red rider?" he mocked, with a grin of sadism on his face. "If I remember correctly, did you not _kill_ their king?" he continued in that sweet honey-like mocking voice, stressing on the word _kill_. Murtagh simply smirked at him, and twirled one of the daggers in his hand. Murtagh's entire body jerked, as though he was going to put all his strength into throwing his dagger.

Immediately, the posture of the other rider became sharp and alert, his entire body taut and ready to face any immediate threat presented by the red rider. Orik knelt there, amazed at the banter between them, but at the same time ready to jump aside to avoid an attack. He had heard much about Iator, otherwise known as the Lycan Rider, another one of the riders under the command of the Black King.

He was rumoured to be one of the Black King's top assassins, and was one of the members of the King's inner circle. Quite early into the war, it was found that the King was not an insane egomaniac that everyone had thought him to be. In fact, he was a person whom took advice, and contrary to popular belief, did not believe himself infallible. He just had great confidence in himself and his ability in controlling his troops. The mocking expression had been wiped off his face, immediately being replaced by a grimace at falling for such an obvious trick.

Although his lycan skills were very useful for a multitude of various reasons, they always gave him false alarms, and his instincts were honed to the point where he would react on the smallest sound or the vaguest feeling. Iator pulled out a rider's blade from his sheath, which seemed to have a gradual downward curve. This sword was particularly suited to Iator's fighting style, which made full use of his lycan capabilities.

Murtagh dropped his throwing knives onto the ground, and pulled out two needle point blades. These type of knives were quite liable to damage or breakage, as they could not penetrate armor. However, the brightsteel used in the forging of Murtagh's knives had made sure that they would not break upon penetration. However, they were still an assassin's choice weapon, as they could penetrate the heart or throat of an unarmed target easily.

Iator smirked at Murtagh, and once again in his clear mocking voice, said "Are you a fool red rider? Perhaps your _father_ has not taught you to wield a proper weapon", sneering as he said father. Once upon a time, at the start of the war Murtagh would have gotten enraged by such judgemental words. However, in the course of the war, he had retreated further into his shell, rarely speaking, except in the throes of battle, or when absolutely necessary.

Murtagh blinked, and in that single blink, Iator had crossed the distance between them, and hurtled towards Murtagh like an angry dragon. Iator immediately attacked Murtagh vigorously with a barrage of strong blows, never once letting up on his offence, forcing Murtagh back one step at a time. Orik stared at the two fighting in awe. He had seen several elves duel, he had seen the riders of the Alliance attacking empire soldiers, but never had he seen two riders face off against one another in a fight of the blade.

Suddenly, Murtagh jumped backward, and bent low to the ground, shifting his knives into a reverse grip, with the tip of both knives in the opposite direction of his thumb. This would create a more powerful upward and horizontal slash, but would be definitely harder to thrust, meaning that he could not get a quick kill, unlike what assassins usually preferred, but it would end up a long, bloody battle. He leaped forward, pushing himself off the hard stone floor of the dwarven caverns with great velocity.

Iator, however, had not been idling while Murtagh was making the little changes to his technique. His mind was whirling, analysing the changes that Murtagh had adopted, and at the same time adapting his own fighting style to counter what Murtagh had done. He tilted his sword slightly upward, and moved it away from his body. The tilt of the sword gave him a slight offensive edge as opposed to his previous stance, and the effective range of his sword had increased with the forward movement of his sword.

These changes were all made within a few seconds, showing the adaptability as well as skill of both combatants. This was the real reason why Iator was one of the best assassins under the King's command. He had an amazing capability to adapt to changing circumstances, as well as change his fighting style to overcome a stronger opponent.

Halfway through his leap forward, Murtagh pulled his right hand slightly lower, and hurled the needle-knife at Iator, simultaneously curling his hand into a fist. Iator's eyes widened slightly. Murtagh had just overcome a disadvantage to his reverse blade grip. The reverse blade grip decreased the range of the user by slightly more than one fifth. However, by throwing the blade, Murtagh had created another attacking element, and at the same time had freed his hand, giving him a longer range, as he could punch Iator easily.

But Iator was not a renowned assassin for nothing. He jumped backward, at the same time spinning, to create a whirling edge of his sword, which would hamper the efforts of Murtagh, and lessen the possibility of Murtagh attacking him directly. He felt himself falling, and murmured a spell to create an opposing force to the downward force that was dragging him down.

Again, he was surprised, as the energy that it took was significantly larger than what he had expected. _It was a trap! _He realized with a jolt. The cave was a void of magic, and it took a greater amount of energy in order to utilize his arcane skills. He slowed down a fraction, and his instincts told him that Murtagh's fist was rushing towards his cheek bone. If it hit successfully, it would push his face to the right, directly into the path of the flying knife, which would easily pierce his skull, despite it not being made for piercing attacks.

He swiped his sword in a swift clockwise motion, and twisted his head to the left, and when Murtagh's fist entered his field of vision, he jerked his head forward and bit down on it, hard. There was a loud clang, and Iator felt his sword meet resistance, and felt triumph, that he had drawn first blood against the famed red rider. Then he felt a shattering pain in his right shoulder bone.

In dismay, he realized that the needle-knife thrown by Murtagh had travelled at a different speed through the air, as opposed to the speed at which Murtagh had his hand holding the other needle-knife towards him. It was probably due to the low concentrations of magic in the air, he concluded. They both rolled to either side, and sprung back up to their feet. Both of them grinned at one another, silently congratulating the other for scoring a hit. Murtagh's hand was bloodied, due to the elongated canines of Iator, and a few inches of Murtagh's needle-knife was embedded in Iator's shoulder.

Unfazed by the loss, Murtagh pulled out an _ulu_, a blunt blade in the shape of a semicircle. He was going for a defensive stance, with his _ulu _held close to his hip, and his needle-knife held in its reverse grip close to his chest. Murtagh realized that more than 20 minutes had occurred, and by all rights, Iator should have finished his assassination and gotten out of the cave. He smirked as he realized that there had to be a diversion created, and that the diversion would only last for a certain amount of time. This meant that Iator's time was running out, and unless he wanted to be captured, he had to return to the Empire's forces soon.

Immediately, he moved forward, both needle-knife and _ulu_ jabbing in quick succession, a constant threat to Iator. Iator quickly backpedalled, as he tried to work out a way in which he could safely execute the dwarf king, and escape from the red rider. He started using his magic in an attempt to crush Orik's windpipe, but was stopped immediately when he felt something screeching against his mental shields.

He faltered a step, and that was all Murtagh needed to slam his _ulu_ into Iator's chest. A shock spread through his body stemming from his chest, where the point of impact had been. Iator quickly started going on the offence, in order to try and re plan. Apparently the dwarf knew of metal attacks, and could perform them, albeit in a crude manner.

This still was dangerous, as even a slight falter could have devastating results, as was evident from the horizontal crescent on his chest. After looking at several options, he decided that there was no way out without wounding himself to a large extent, and therefore decided to abort the mission. He continued fighting, and pretended not to notice as he was backed to a wall.

As Murtagh brought his needle-knife back in what would have undoubtedly been a killing blow, Iator pushed off the wall with his werewolf strength, although his inner wolf snarled at him for abandoning a fight, he retreated with the aid of magic, at a speed which Murtagh could not even hope to catch up with without needlessly exhausting himself. Orik looked at Murtagh with a guarded expression, and before either could say anything, the honor guard burst into the room with panicked expressions.

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TBC.

Eragon vs. Vanir will be in the next chapter. Will also explain about Lycans etc. in the next chapter

**Review.** I eat them to stay strong. Nom nom nom nom.(:


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